Captured by shadows

The silence stretched for a beat too long.

Matteo Corsini sat at the Ricci family's grand dining table as if he belonged there. Legs sprawled in an arrogant slouch, one arm draped over the back of his chair, fingers idly toying with the base of his untouched glass.

Unbothered. Unshaken.

His dark, unreadable eyes were locked on Alessandra.

She hated the way her pulse betrayed her, the frantic staccato against her ribs impossible to ignore. The room was warm—too warm—but she knew it wasn't the morning sunlight streaming through the massive arched windows that was making her skin prickle.

It was him.

Matteo Corsini, the man no one had invited.

The man who had just walked into the lion's den without a trace of fear.

Beside her, Luca was anything but indifferent. His grip on her thigh—once teasing, once possessive in a way that made her skin crawl—had turned to steel. She could feel the tension in his fingers, the sharp edge of his restraint.

He was furious.

And he wasn't hiding it anymore.

Across the table, Leonardo Ricci, the formidable head of the family, finally set his fork down. The soft clink of silver against china was barely audible, but it might as well have been the crack of a gunshot in the thick silence.

His fingers tapped once against the table—a quiet command.

"You have some nerve walking in here unannounced, Corsini," he said, his voice calm, but lined with steel.

Matteo smirked, the corner of his lips curving with that signature arrogance that made people uneasy.

"I've been told," he mused.

Leonardo's sharp gaze narrowed. "Is there a reason for this… visit?"

Matteo took his time.

He reached for his glass, swirling the deep red liquid within, watching it coat the sides like liquid silk. The way he moved—unhurried, deliberate—sent a message of its own. He wasn't here by accident. He wasn't nervous.

He was enjoying this.

Then, with the kind of audacity only he could pull off, Matteo lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow, savoring sip. The silence stretched, thickening like smoke.

Setting the glass down with a faint clink, he leaned forward, elbows resting on the polished wood.

"Business," he said smoothly. "And family, of course."

A muscle feathered in Luca's jaw. He let out a quiet laugh—cold, sharp, dangerous.

"Family?" he echoed, his tone dripping with mockery. "You must be confused, Matteo. The Riccis and the Corsinis are not family."

Matteo met Luca's stare head-on, utterly unfazed.

"Not yet," he murmured.

The shift in the room was palpable.

A ripple went through the air, an invisible current of tension that settled over the table like a storm about to break.

Luca stiffened beside Alessandra, his fingers tightening their grip on her leg. She didn't flinch. Didn't dare move.

Because she knew.

Matteo wasn't just here to make a scene.

He was here to declare war.

Vittorio Ricci, Alessandra's father, leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—sharp and assessing—betrayed his thoughts. He was weighing the situation, calculating.

"Enough," he said finally, his deep voice cutting through the room. "If you have business, speak. If not, leave."

Matteo tilted his head, studying the older man with a hint of amusement. "So impatient, Signor Ricci."

The air in the room shifted again. A subtle, almost imperceptible tightening.

Alessandra swore she could feel the very balance of power shifting in real time.

Matteo was pushing. Testing.

Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And then, just as the tension coiled to a breaking point—

He turned to her.

"Alessandra," he said, his voice smooth as velvet, "do you plan on coming to the Gala tomorrow night?"

Her heart stuttered.

The Ricci family's annual charity gala. A dazzling event filled with politicians, CEOs, and the most dangerous men in Italy's underworld. A night of power, wealth, and carefully curated illusions.

Of course, she was expected to go.

She just hadn't expected this.

The weight of every gaze at the table settled on her like a physical force. She felt Luca's grip shift, his fingers moving.

From her thigh—to her waist.

A silent claim.

His voice was calm, but edged with warning.

"Why do you ask?"

Matteo's smirk deepened, dark amusement flickering in his eyes.

"I'd like a dance."

The words were a spark in a room full of gasoline.

Alessandra's breath caught.

Luca's grip turned bruising.

And the entire room fell into lethal silence.

It wasn't just the words themselves—it was the way he said them. Smooth, controlled. A challenge, a taunt, a declaration all wrapped into one.

Across the table, Leonardo exhaled slowly through his nose, his expression unreadable. Vittorio's gaze darkened. Even Alessandra's Isabella, normally poised, gripped her fork just a little too tightly.

Luca's fingers dug into her waist, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, ice-cold.

"You think you can waltz in here and—"

"I know I can."

Matteo cut him off with a lazy flick of his wrist, as if swatting away an annoying fly.

Luca inhaled sharply, his entire body vibrating with restrained fury. Alessandra knew that if they weren't at the dining table—if they weren't in the presence of the Ricci patriarch himself—Luca wouldn't be holding back.

He'd already have his hands around Matteo's throat.

Matteo knew it too.

And he was enjoying every second of it.

Alessandra could barely breathe. She felt like a pawn in a game far bigger than herself, caught between two men who were used to taking whatever they wanted.

Matteo's eyes found hers again.

Dark. Intense.

She should look away. Should ignore him.

But she didn't.

For a second—just a fraction of a second—something flickered in his gaze. A whisper of something dangerous. Something that made her stomach tighten.

Then it was gone.

Replaced by that signature arrogance.

"Well?" Matteo drawled. "Will you dance with me?"

Alessandra parted her lips, but no sound came out. She wasn't sure what terrified her more—the question itself, or the fact that her pulse leapt at the thought.

Luca's hand on her waist tightened.

"She won't be dancing with you," he said, voice final. "Or anyone else, for that matter."

Matteo hummed, pretending to consider it. Then, with deliberate ease, he reached for his glass again and took another slow sip.

"Funny," he murmured, setting it down with a soft clink. "I don't recall asking you."

Luca shot up from his chair so fast it scraped against the marble floor with a sharp screech.

Alessandra inhaled sharply, reaching for his arm, but it was too late. The air in the room crackled.

Leonardo Ricci sighed, rubbing his temple. "Luca. Sit. Down."

Luca didn't move.

His chest rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths, his fury barely leashed.

Matteo, still lounging in his chair like he owned the damn place, merely raised a brow.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Amused.

Unfazed.

A king surveying his kingdom.

Then, finally—mercifully—Luca exhaled sharply and lowered himself back down.

The storm wasn't over.

Not even close.

But for now, the game continued.

And Alessandra?

She was the queen trapped between two kings.